


Drift Away

by Anonymous_Username



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:09:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Username/pseuds/Anonymous_Username
Summary: Sentinels are the only humans that can control chaos, most are snatched to be mages, some are snatched to be witchers.Guides are extreme extroverts. They easily influence people. Most go into the military or politics. Some become bards.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	Drift Away

Sentinels are the only humans that can control chaos, most are snatched to be mages, some are snatched to be witchers.

Guides are extreme extroverts. They easily influence people. Most go into the military or politics. Some become bards.

But over the many centuries since the conjunction of the spheres, the knowledge of sentinels and guides is lost to all but a privileged few. Even most witchers do not truly understand what they are. Their senses overwhelm them and they call it weakness. Their minds wander to places they can not come back from and they call it death. So Geralt takes every precaution he can. He bathes as often as he can to prevent the dirt he can feel. His hood protects his sensitive eyes and the occasional black scarf blocks his nose.

Meditating helps. Letting his senses stretch out in a controlled way. Hearing the bird song a mile off while his eyes remain tightly closed, calms him in a way few things do. Which is why Jaskier should be intolerable to his senses. Everything from the bright colors he wears, to his constant singing, to his cloying perfume, should set Geralt off. But they don’t. Jaskier’s eclectic outfits make him a bright point of focus in a fight. His singing is as calming as the birds Geralt loves. And his scent, it quiets the roar of Geralt’s mind to something like a breathy whimper.

Jaskier should be bored of Geralt by now. He is so often bored by people. They mostly fail to hold his attention after their first fuck. But not Geralt. Geralt takes up space in his head, in a way that nobody ever has. Geralt is the only one he can sing about, not out of choice, but because he’s the only one Jaskier can think about. He’s enough. Jaskier thinks that one of these days Geralt is going to notice. He’s going to notice that Jaskier politely declines requests to sing other songs. He’s going to notice how long it’s been since Jaskier has graced a marriage bed. He’s going to notice the way Jaskier looks at him.

Soon. Right?

Geralt is usually not sloppy enough to hunt while he’s tired or distracted, but his mind won’t leave him alone, and these people need him, and he needs to feel needed. So he goes. The toxic potions quiet the screaming in his head, and the work takes on a soothing familiarity. Most normal humans would scoff at the notion that killing things was soothing, but Geralt appreciated letting his muscle memory take over and giving his mind a rest.

But maybe he should’ve been paying closer attention, as a harpy tore into his exposed arm. His world surged into blinding focus as he swiftly beheaded the beast. He then torched the remains of the nest with a swift igni. Exhausted and yet bursting with adrenaline, Geralt collapsed to his knees. It didn’t make any sense, he’d been injured far worse than this. Why was he losing focus so rapidly? The grass beneath him is so green, so cool, it would be so easy to just collapse into it. To never return.

Jaskier had gotten used to waiting out Geralt’s hunts. It became an easy, practiced routine. Hear the snapping of branches underfoot that meant Geralt wanted him to know he was there. Hurriedly pick up his notebook and charcoal (if he was not already clutching them excitedly) and practically skip over to the witcher. Give Geralt a cursory look over for wounds. Finding none, start to practically vibrate with excitement as he pesters the witcher for details. Write down what is given and start to play around with wording in his notebook, while Geralt guts the monster for potion ingredients. Easy. Practiced.

Except it had been hours and the sun was going down and none of that had happened yet. Geralt hadn’t come back yet.

Jaskier cursed as he trudged through the rapidly darkening forest. “Geralt!” he yells as he leads Roach behind him, hoping that maybe she can smell him like a bloodhound or something. But he needn’t have wondered about Roach’s tracking capabilities, because he spies Geralt himself, motionless in the gloom.

“Geralt!” he cries again, but this time there is an edge of hysteria in his voice as he sinks to his knees beside the still figure. Instinct takes over as words spill unbidden from Jaskier’s mouth. Little pleas of “Come now, Darling.” and “It’ll be alright, Dearest.” accompany Jaskier’s searching fingers as he probes at wounds old and new as he looks for the cause of Geralt’s suffering. There is a hazy, unfocus in Geralt’s golden eyes as Jaskier cradles his face in his hands. “Come back to me Dear Heart.” Jaskier whispers. And Geralt does.

They don’t talk about it afterward. What is there to say? Geralt had been off his game. Jaskier had been a sentimental fool.

They continue to circle around each other. Drifting, orbiting, and never drawing closer.


End file.
